by David Craig
(Matthew 1: 1-17)
God's book comes after His plan. How the King of time
must shake His shaggy head and laugh as we
insist on our smaller scripts. We write the lines
for a play that no one else will ever see.
Not a jot or a tittle of our time will reach
the light of real day. They will be burnt away
with every other falsehood we bother to teach,
every bit of wisdom we save to say.
He owns time. He owns the key, and He owns the door.
And when His mercy reclaims the fields of our lives,
our petals receive. He bees a pollen store,
as He sweetens heaven-homes, ecstatic hives.
From the reaches of heaven the I AM becomes a man,
a King who beggars his throne that dust might stand.
